


Lost and Found

by LittleMonkeyDances



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Abuse (of many kinds), Alternate Universe (I guess), Angst, Family Drama, Family Issues, Father-Son Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery/Fantasy (tiny bit), Strong Language, Violence (graphic), emotional stuff, slavery and human trade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 23:45:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5804983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMonkeyDances/pseuds/LittleMonkeyDances
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected call from his old so-called friend “Davey” Norton puts Michael de Santa’s attention to his grave up in North Yankton, where an unknown visitor keeps on attending his tomb. When Michael leaves to Ludendorff to find out more about the stranger’s connection to his former self he has to face a part of his life he’d never knew he’d lost: the story of a lost soul, forgotten in the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Old Habits

**Author's Note:**

> Hm, really sorry to waste your time with this crap I found in the corners of my brain. Still, really wanted to give it a try :) Maybe you find some fun in it (tell me, if so).

Some say there are only two kind of people: those who tread and those, who get trodden upon. That indeed is the only real choice possible: Live and let die or run and be prey. At least, that is what some might say. If on the right side, this attitude might serve to one’s needs.  
Ever since he grew up, Michael formerly Townley, now de Santa, took good care about being part of the first category. Having experienced the feeling of the second one in his early years by an abusive father, he decided very early, that he won’t be victimized ever again. A decision that brought him all the way up from the trailer park life in the harsh mid-west to the ever shining, flashy and glistening San Andreas. Right on top of the capitalistic food-chain and this shiny end justified all the means he had to take.

At least, that is what he came to convince himself to. He leaned back in his deck-chair, adjusting his aviator sunglasses and staring at the blue sky. Fourty-eight-fucking-years of fighting seemed to have proven him right somehow. At least he was sitting beside his pool, above his tennis court, next to his mansion and the garage with the three cars on the front part, a glass of finest scotch and some expensive cigars from New Providence next to him. What more could he wish for?  
He sighed. It still felt like being on a fucking run, but he just couldn’t see the damn goal line. He kept running and didn’t even realize where to. It never ended. His wife and kids were finally back with him, he got out alive of all that shit he and his nutcase friends had pulled lately and he had gotten a dreamlike job at the Richard Majestic Studios, making movies. Just like he always had dreamt about. So, what more to wish and fight for? He should be content, happy and satisfied.

But he wasn’t. Even when everything had changed in the last few months since his family moved out and in again, his old friend Trevor had come back into his life and that he became some sort of shitfaced mentor to Franklin; still nothing had changed in the end. Here he was again, lying at the pool in the middle of the day getting canned, while his family didn’t seem to give a shit about him and vice-versa. All change. No change. Same same no different. No different the slightest.

In the faint distant behind Led Zepplin jamming in his ears through his headphones he could hear some quarreling between his spoiled daughter and his wife scolding her probably for some brainless thing she’d done. Michael watched a whirl of few dry leaves from the tree at the tennis court sway over to the pool and gently touching the water, drawing almost invisible, round circles on the surface. Sometimes it felt like something on the inside did the same to him. Started those circles, but he couldn’t find the source, nor follow where the waves went. It just felt anxious. He was stuck. For fuck’s sake! What was wrong with him? Couldn’t he just rest and be happy?

This old fairy tale, he’d heard long, long time ago came to his mind: The one about the ever-working fisherman, the magical flounder and the wife, who couldn’t get enough. The fisherman saved the golden flounder and it granted him those freakish wishes. After a good talk to his wife he first demanded a bigger house and a little fame and fortune, just enough to live well. But the wife wouldn’t be happy yet. She demanded more. And more. And more. And each day the fisherman went back to the sea, asking the flounder to grant his wife’s wishes. Until one day the clever fish got all fed up, throwing them both back to the shabby shack where they had been living their whole miserable lives long. Sound familiar?  
At first thought, Michael would definitely see himself as the fisherman. Doing everything in his power to fulfill his family’s wishes. He smirked at the thought that his wife Amanda really fit that wife in the fairy tale. He spent some time imagining her being put back in that butthole of a trailer park where she came from by the magic flounder as a penalty for her excessive spending and longing. Even though that thought might have been somehow enjoyable, his mind took him even further. The anxiousness didn’t leave. The run in his head went on.

He really shouldn’t think too much about it. This whole thinking shit would only sting and prove him that so much of what he’d achieved was nothing but fake or failure – nothing that brought him happiness or made him proud for a very long lasting time. So maybe it was way easier to just keep his thoughts around his never-satisfied wife, blaming her for his misery, just as the metaphorical fisherman did. After a while though, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he might also relate to the wife in this fairy tale. Never content. Never at peace. Never knowing what he really wanted and in the end just wasting. Running to somewhere, where the “where” always stayed just some vague idea. A repelling thought. Being the good fisherman felt hell more satisfying.  
Nevertheless, Michael really seemed to feel much more like the fisherman’s wife sometimes. Who was responsible for this unhappy state he found himself in again and again? Amanda? His family? His friends? Or he himself? Or all of them? Fuck!  
Maybe in the end it was irrelevant whose fault it might be, it was like this now and things were stuck and shitty like they always were. He was the same shitface he’d always been. Nothing, nothing changed. Ever. He was still craving for something more. Something that he just couldn’t grasp. Something worth living for maybe. Some higher goal or something he could genuinely be proud of. Maybe it was the movies. Maybe not. He wasn’t content at all. And all the shit he’d been through lately was just a remedy to the symptoms not a cure to the sickness. The heists, the planning, the adrenaline, the action, the teaching and above all: being the leading part: The admiring glances Franklin shot him at times. All of this had indeed improved his whole state of happiness. At least for a while. But here he was again, right where it started, ended and started again. He was caught in a fucking circle and he couldn’t see any way out.  
He was the fisherman and he was the fisherman’s wife – both at the same time. And that just meant that one day he will find himself back in the misery where his whole journey started. It was exhausting to hold this thought and chase after it, but maybe by facing it, he could detect a solution to his situation.

But he wasn't able to keep this thoughtful mood for very long. Not to mention that he couldn’t find a solution of any kind right now. In the corner of his eyes he could see the maid rushing out of the house through the back door mumbling something. His inner alert instantly clicked on and with a deep sigh he put his earplugs aside, leaving the mobile at the side desk next to the chair and got up with a deep growl in his throat, knowing, that trouble just waited few moments ahead. Family infused trouble.

The second the sooth of classical rock has stopped to lull him into a mixture of bitter thoughts and alcohol infused relaxation the shrill sounds of angry voices hit him like a wall of cold, entering any a/c-d Vinewood-store on a hot summer day. The bitterness increased the closer he got to the scene.  
They were fighting about Tracey’s decision to go back to her High School boyfriend Gary, who actually worked as a roadie for some small teen-music band, nobody has ever heard of. Amanda was not at all happy with it and neither was Michael. He took a deep breath. The confrontation with them was probably not optional now, he had to leave his self-built sanctuary and enter into the little drama that was awaiting him. When they managed to scare Eva, the maid, away, it was probably loaded in there. Another sigh escaped him. This family of his was rotten and he was their freakin’ king.

His daughter Tracey did somewhat “okay” in college (apart from the new events). She went there and came back alive and was not pregnant. Some days she brought some college friends to hang on the pool, drink and did not sell her body on the latest episodes of Shit or Shame. Michael thought that was progress. Some kind of progress at least. Even when, after her announcement to go to college, he had something different in mind. Somewhat more like her studying and getting some degree, probably in some business shit. But well… progress, progress… no porn film starring his daughter on the market (yet) was something to be seen as progress. So progress it was. After all the therapy he went through, he knew that focusing on positive thoughts might help him at some point, not to explode and kill anyone in his house right now or in the nearer future, so he tried very hard focus on the bright side.

And then there was Jimmy, with whom he had an even worse relationship. Was that even possible? The kid was unbearable. If he thought about it, this boy really embodied everything he loathed in the new generation: Way of language, way of leisure time arrangements, way of looking to the future, way of developing work ethics (which was just nonexistent), way of lifestyle altogether. After his family’s move back home, Michael had held some minor hope that the kid might pull himself together. Alas, this newly gained family attitude lasted not very long. The shit he pulled, that little fat turd? All back to normal. Jim had even changed his mailbox answer from somehow serious back to this jizzle-po-pizzle-jay-dog-shit again, playing all day long with himself in his room that smelled like a rat cage filled with jerked off socks. Michael had to fight the urge to break all those precious possessions and teach his son some manners and how to be a man. Wasted time, though. It didn’t work out the first time, when he was drugged and thrown out of his own car by the kid. But… as with Tracey, Michael had to see the positive things with Jimmy too: There were no stolen yachts, no obvious drugs (in extreme quantities), no kidnapping (so far) and the boy stuck to his fitness plan somehow, getting out there and then, adding a little real sunlight to his screen tan. So far so good.

“Why are you such a tyrannical bitch, Mum? It’s my decision who I’m with or not and what I do with my free time!” The high-pitched voice of Michael’s daughter was clearly distinguishable between the noises coming down the first floor, where Jimmy had taken sanctuary in his smelly mess of a room.  
“If you’re so grown up, then why do you keep asking us for money and don’t get a job yourself? Please go ahead, throw away everything we did for you and get together with this loser again.” Amanda de Santa stood in the dining room, hands stemmed on her hips, glaring at her daughter.  
“You mean like you? Uh no, wait, only job YOU ever had, was stripping along in strip clubs or worse, right?”  
When Michael entered, the two women stared at each other with such a hatred glow, that he could almost feel the room temperature rise to “hellfire”.  
“You hear that, Michael? Do you hear your daughter talking shit to me?” Two accusing glares rested on him. He only sighed, heading towards the kitchen.  
“Can’t call her a liar when it comes to your work experience”, he mumbled under his breath. He wasn’t sure, whether Amanda had heard it. She eyed him with such disdain though, that he guessed she did.  
Leaning against the arch between kitchen and dining room he shot a stern look at Tracey, “You want to leave college for that jerk now?”  
“Noo?! I just asked for a little money from Mum, so Gary and I could go on that short trip to Vice City.”

Amanda crossed her arms and stared at her husband, as if this was suddenly his fault. “Short trip. Of course. Do you realize the distance between Los Santos, where your College starts again on Monday and Vice City where you are short-tripping to? Along with that long-haired monkey?”  
“COME ON, Mum! Just gimme the money! DAAD! She’s such a hypocrite! Only yesterday she went to this other yoga session with the Fabien-like gluten-crazy-indian-guru-geek! That was like way more expensive than what I asked for!” Tracey tried to side with him, but Michael was just longing for some whiskey on the rocks and the possibility to be somewhere else. He knew Amanda was wasting his money on stupid things, classes and unnecessary possessions since he arrived with his family here in Los Santos. They were all spoilt. But he thought that maybe his kids might have at least a little bit of street smarts, if not the big brains. It didn’t seem much like it though.  
“Your mother is right. We are not funding this shit. And that’s it!”  
“I HATE BOTH OF YOU!” She yelled, turning on the heel and leaving the house.

Michael sighed and turned to finally pour himself some whiskey. Sometimes he really wondered how these kids could be from his loins. They resembled him like shit. But then it was a thing with this generation he would never get. And maybe most pre-1990’s felt that way, pre 1970’s like him even more. The millennial generation 2.0 was so extremely far from the children of wars and revolution, so far from those who had nothing and did all to achieve tiny things without any technical device at all, that it wasn’t unusual to ask oneself if those kids had even just the slightest connection to the lives of their ancestors. They were just cut from each other. At least, that is what he guessed. Maybe they were really not his. Who knew for sure? But then, he could sense, that even Amanda had times wondering about their kids this way. So probably he was just a dinosaur looking stunned by the rise of the mammals.  
“Are they even mine?” He mumbled, when he noticed Amanda entering the kitchen behind him.  
“Really, Michael?” She asked pointing at the glass in front of him. He looked up thinning his lips angrily and gulping down the glass. “You’re so pathetic. I can’t even find the words.”  
“Yes. Thanks too for the honest answer, doll”, he mumbled back without even making eye-contact, observing the brownish liquid filling the gaps between the ice cubes as he gave himself a refill.  
She just shook her head.

He saw the glimpse of hurt in her eyes, when she left, but couldn’t find the motivation to stop her leaving. Once an asshole, always one. And at least he also married an asshole. So it was a perfect match. They hurt each other on regular base. Now it was just even again. He couldn’t even remember when it started to be like this. Anyway everything was back to normal. Normal as in shitty and shitty as in always. Just tread on, he told himself. Trot, trot, trot.

After a moment of inner-whining, he decided to return to his sanctuary at the pool. When he picked up his phone, the new-message-sign flashed vividly. He stared at the email-address. Michael instantly knew this would be bad. He hadn’t heard from him in a while. That had lulled him into a feeling of safety. But obviously things were just about to boil up again.  
“This’s gonna be bad news.” He bit his lip and reached for his drink, before reading the mail. Messages like these never came to a good end. And another bad end to anything he really couldn’t cope without snapping and ranting amok. He got up, walking along the pool side. The sun shining on his head, trying in vain to make him forget, that it was a shit-packed day.  
After some agitated shaking of his head and pacing around his pool, he sat down again, looking at the mail again:

_Michael, I hope you behave yourself. In spite of our intention not to meet again, I came across some information I feel strongly obligated to tell you. Meet me at the canals at the Puerto del Sol Yacht Club. I’ll be waiting there tomorrow 6 pm, at the landing stages. - Dave_

News from Dave Norton used to set fire to all of his life plans in the late time, so this was going to be bad. Michael could predict that there was trouble ahead.  
  
Little did he know  that the past would knock on his door once more. A way more subtle knock than the one of his infamous best friend Trevor, bursting into his house some time ago. It was time to meet some ghosts.


	2. New Ghosts from Old Times

The mail from Dave Norton could only mean there was shit lying ahead. A hundred reasons, why he shouldn’t be sitting in his Tailgator now, driving to the La Puerta marina, came to Michael’s mind. What would the agent want from him this time? What “information” could he possibly have, that might interest him? Did he need some more help, torturing for the sake of satisfying his superiors, maybe? Some new way of blackmailing him? Some more bullshit involving crazy diving, boat-riding, self-funded helicopter-rides or whatever? Does he need that right now? Definitely not.  
The dark car smoothly slid through the late afternoon traffic. Michael knew his way around the city and managed to get around most of the jams that were avoidable. This gave him some minor satisfaction and loosened up the rising anxiousness inside him. Should he have brought Trevor on this? He was sure his old friend would’ve come instantly. Especially when it involved Davey, who he’d wanted to clip right from the start anyway. And Michael had no plans whatsoever to end up in the morgue again, playing rescue dog for that lazy ass of an agent.

But now there he was on his way to the Yacht Club, all on his own again. Maybe he was just a reckless idiot, driven by the urge to end up in some chaos. The idea made him flinch and smirk inside the same time. He turned right at the Tackle Street and passed the greenish welcoming arch bow of the marina, before he stopped the car under the building with the roofed parking lots. He had no intention to get seagull-shit all over his car, additionally to the shit Davey was probably going to pour over him anyway. He walked straight to the canals, where two nice looking sailboats were roped to the landing stages. The air was salty and filled with seagull screeches and the honking and roaring of the cars passing La Puerta area. It could be a nice evening, after all.

Just at this moment, when he started to relax and leaned over the fence, a familiar voice sounded out right behind him.  
“So you came”, Dave Norton stated and Michael turned around. The agent wore a gray sports coat and looked way less tired than the last time they’d met. The work as a host on the old Steve Haines show "The Underbelly of Paradise" seemed to do it for him.  
“Hey Dave”, Michael eyed him up and down. For a moment he thought about shaking hands.  
Dave nodded to his right side, where a wooden bench was set between two large palm trees, “Let’s take a seat. This is going to take a while.”  
“So there is a chance that this long-time-no-see-event won’t end up with you knockin’ me out?” Michael sarcastically added, following the agent.  
“You never know”, he mocked back, cleared his throat and leaned back on the bench.

Michael could sense, that the other felt slightly uneasy, probably not knowing how to start whatever he was planning to.  
“So? What’s this about?” Michael sat next to him, facing the sailboats gently floating in the water.  
“Actually it is mainly about you.” Dave was staring at him, his facial expression unreadable.  
“About me?” Michael forced himself to take his stare from the soothing sight of the ocean rocked boats and looked at Norton, “What did I do now?”  
Norton sighed, “Nothing recent. That is at least what I hope.”  
“I bet you do.” Michael couldn’t hide the mild smile that came along with the memories of the big score some months ago.  
Norton seemed to ignore the hint of pride in Michael’s tone, “Just stick to point now.” Michael wanted to interrupt, but Dave just continued, “Some weeks ago, I got a strange note from the Ludendorff sheriff down in North Yankton.”  
Michael frowned, “North Yankton? What could that have to do with me then?”  
Norton sighed and crooked an eyebrow, shooting Michael a mocking look. “I am not dignifying this with an answer. Now listen, Michael. The guys there had quite the work to do after you and Trevor messed up that sacred ground, opening the grave and spilling a lot of Chinese blood on the churchyard.” He started ranting, “A churchyard for heaven’s sake!”

“That was mainly Trevor’s doing. I only tried to stop him”, Michael grunted in defense, not that he actually held any regrets to this. He did what he had to do. Could have ended way worse.  
Norton clicked his tongue, “Yes, yes. I don’t even want to speak of the extra work you caused me with that unnecessary action.”  
“Unnecessary? Maybe YOU should’ve-” Anger was taking the better part of him now. He was not sitting here, getting on some strange guilt-trip, Davey wanted him to be on.  
But the agent already shook his head, cutting in, “Relax, Michael. That is not, why I asked you to come.”

He made a short pause, gaining some breath, before he continued, “I convinced the Ludendorff police, that it was notorious grave desecrators operating in the area. So that is actually why they started to monitor the churchyard. The sheriff took this whole matter quite serious. So he was keeping an extra eye on the graves the last months, assuming this might happen again.”  
“Get to the point, Davey.” Michael growled, wondering what this meeting was all about.  
Norton rolled his eyes , “Just listen. The sheriff contacted me a few weeks ago. He’d noticed someone returning regularly to the grave of the late _Michael Townley_. After it was reinstated, that is. Maybe the person coming there to mourn or condemn you or whatever they are doing did this even before you and Trevor decided to destroy the grave. But on that we do not have any data.”  
“So I got a fan, huh? Isn’t it nice to be loved for your work?” The corners of Michael’s mouth crooked into a faint smile. That weren’t such bad news after all.  
Norton though gave him a skeptical look, “Michael… no sane person in the whole world loves you for your work, except maybe Trevor, but there goes the “sane”. You mugged, robbed, screwed and killed in the most selfish way possible. There are no fans on that.”  
“Is this your way of saying thank you, Davey?” Michael mirrored the skepticism of the other and stared right back to him. When he thought what he did for this guy without hearing the smallest thanks, gee… where was society heading to?  
“Let’s just not get into this.” Dave sighed.  
Michael held up his hands in mocking defense, “Your call, not mine. I just state, that I never heard a _Thank you Michael for saving my ass_ from you.”  
Norton cleared his throat once more, threw Michael an annoyed look and just went on. “Just drop the case, Michael. Am I wasting my time here?”  
“I’m starting to think that I do”, Michael mumbled, thinning his mouth and eyeing the agent suspiciously.  
Norton sighed, “I always liked you somehow, you know? So I did some research on the case of your “fan” and I fear you missed quite a letter in your active days back in Yankton.”  
“A letter? What are you talking about?” Michael raised his eyebrows.

Norton reached for his pocket and handed him a crinkled letter. Its color had already turned into a very faint yellow and it had buckles and bends all over it. Obviously it had lain unopened for quite a while, forgotten somewhere under dust and cobwebs. It was stamped October 1997 and the address was only too familiar: the strip club, where he met Amanda and did some, say “special work” for. Dave must have opened it with a blunt knife, as it was all torn on the upper part. The paper felt strangely crispy in his hands. He looked at him bewildered.  
“What has this to do with anything? Is this some sort of fan post? Am I invited to some freakish “passed away criminals”-convention?”  
“Just open it already. You’ll see.” Dave nodded and Michael took the folded paper out. The slim machine writing looked more official than he’d expected. The head of the letter was that of some state bureau.  
“Youth Welfare Service?”  
Dave shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the letter with a wave of his hand, finally Michael started to read:

_Mr. Townley,_  
_Please note that this is an off the record message, that has no legal constancy whatsoever. I do feel obligated to write you nonetheless._  
_I am contacting you on behalf of the North Yankton Youth Welfare Office relating to further child custody of Anthony Juarez, born 1992 in State of North Yankton. Ms. Fernanda Juarez enlisted you, Mr. Michael Townley, born 1965 NY, as father to Anthony in our registration forms. Due to the lately demise of Ms Juarez, you would stay the last legal guardian of Anthony._  
_I do realize that contacting you from official side turns out to be almost impossible and I personally understand that you are completely out of question as a proper guardian to any child, considering what one hears about your “business trips” all over the midwest – that is, if you are indeed “the” Townley, I fear you might be. I also understand that there is a chance you might not be informed about the possibility of said fatherhood by Ms. Juarez until this very moment._  
_Nevertheless it seems only legit to let you know about the future of Anthony Juarez, giving you a last chance to claim custody._  
_As Ms. Juarez can no longer take care of the boy, he is about to be sent to a foster home about 140 miles south-east from Ludendorff by the end of this month. Until then he stays in the Ludendorff Centre for Orphans. If you are interested in claiming custody or wish a paternity test, I could arrange that._  
_Please don’t mention this letter to any of the authorities, if you decide to come to the office. Your name though is listed here and you can officially demand your rights as a father. If in doubt ask for case number LNY-697-97 J. Realizing that I might be writing a convicted criminal who seems to run some sort of exotic dance establishment and is hardly contactable, I feel that this won’t be the best for Anthony. On the other hand I don’t want him to miss the chance for a life with his father (if you fulfill our legal conditions, that is). Ms. Juarez personally asked me that I should at least try to make this meeting possible, when I saw her the last time in hospital. This is what I am doing by sending you this highly inappropriate letter now. Considering that you aren’t that "law-abiding" yourself I feel that you would treat this note with the utmost delicacy._  
_If you come to the office within the next 14 days to confirm paternity, we can prio-check you and hopefully make you Anthony’s legal custodian. However, if you choose to remain silent, I understand it as your resignation to this matter. Enclosed you find a picture of the boy, taken in July this year._  
_Kind regards_  
_D.G._

Something cold and heavy settled itself in Michael’s stomach area, when he read and reread the letter over and over again. He nervously crumpled the edges of the paper in his hands. Dave Norton seemed to analyze his every mimic move, waiting for some kind of reaction. After a while Michael finally put the letter next to him, facing Norton with a mixture of anger and refusal.  
“The fuck, Davey? Are you kiddin’?” Michael didn’t know what to think or feel about this letter in his hand.  
Norton’s face gave some strange twitch before he answered, “Unfortunately I am not. You can trust me when I say, I really put some spare time on this”, he pointed in the direction of Michael’s lap, leaving it unclear, whether he meant the letter or Michael's testicles.  
“The letter is authentic. I found it more by accident, when I went through some of your _Townley files_ , after the notice of the Ludendorff sheriff. The letter must have been filed there long after your so-called death in 2004.”  
Michael sighed heavily leaning back and staring at the two sailboats. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ…”

“Not to speak of this D.G. I was considering giving information about this person to the North Yankton YSW-section, but we wouldn’t like to wake sleeping dogs over why I investigate in anything concerning you, Michael, right? So apart from that…what do you think? Is this possible?” Norton followed Michael’s stare.  
“I – ”, he took the envelope with the picture inside, fumbling it around in his hands. It made a soft crackly sound, every time he turned it around. He furrowed his brows and began “There is a pretty good chance, that this thing might not be completely impossible.”  
Michael swallowed, trying really hard to remember a Fernanda Juarez or the years 1991 and 1992. 21 years ago. Fuck! So much had happened in that times, it felt like a century.  
Girl could have been one of the strippers maybe. Brandy, Angel, Kitty, Raven, Cinnamon, Star, Ruby and Diamond, he recalled some of their names in his mind, but he had no idea if a Fernanda was hiding behind any of these. Why would he have cared for other strippers and their fake and real names anyway? He got Amanda out of Krystal, so why research after the other chicks? He had been fine fucking their stripper identities.  
He leaned forward, his arms on his knees, holding his head. There were one or two Latinas among the others. Has Fernanda Juarez been one of them? He started massaging his temples, in an attempt to recollect memories of some strippers he’d taken “special” liking in.

After Tracey’s birth 1991, Amanda was a little withholding her love for him. He just had to relax somewhere else. It might not have been the best of all ideas, if he thought about it now. And maybe this attitude towards the other strippers had also been something that had started the downfall with Amanda. But it was done now. And at no point whatsoever did he actually plan anything serious with any of these girls. Not to speak of getting them pregnant. It has been down-bringing enough, having all this sudden baby girl responsibility and an all sour Amanda at home that time. Not, that he didn’t love them, but he’d needed to get some steam off, to relax and have some fun.  
Cinnamon came to his mind again. He remembered her telling him, that she was born and raised in La Ciudad. Maybe it was her. Maybe.

„I thought you might say something like that. You were quite the lady killer with those dancers.” Dave seemed to enjoy this whole situation a little too much.  
Michael shot him an angry look, before he continued his stare at the water with its tiny waves, still turning the envelope around in his hands. “Jealous, Davey?”  
“Not when it results in kids popping their heads up all over the states, looking for me.”  
“Fuck you”, Michael growled, attempting not to get completely angry over that ass of an agent next to him.

The envelope in his hands held too much of excitement in it, to fuss about stupid Agent Norton and his non-serving dick. They both remained silent for a while. At least Norton respected that news like that need some silence. The clouds turned to a yellowish pink, as the sun began to set. Michael noticed how the light drew a smooth coloring game on the open sails of the two boats. The screech of some seagulls and the constant noise of the city traffic were the only sounds there and he quickly got lost in his thoughts for a while that felt like ages.  
A helicopter started up from the parking lot and the unnerving sound of its propellers finally woke Michael out of the paralyzed state this letter had got him into. He shook his head and fished the little folded photograph out of the envelope. The cold lump in his stomach turned into a tense, prickling sensation. He began to sweat slightly. Images of Jim and Tracey flashed his mind. Finally he looked to the piece of evidence between his fingers. The picture was folded in the middle. Someone had written _Anthony 1997_ in very neat little letters on the blank backside. He held it in his hands for a moment or two, turning it around several times. What was he about to see? Some random kid in a weird family portrait next to a passed away stripper? 1997. Tracey was only six years old back then, and Jimmy four. Happy times.

Michael closed his eyes, took a deep breath and unfolded the photograph. He stared at it trying to convince himself of the nonexistence of this whole possibility. This could not happen right now. Not now, not ever. And hell, it couldn’t be true. Just couldn’t. This was a scam. Something Dave wanted to do, to trap him again. He only had to figure out how and why. This being a trap felt better than this not being a trap.

A small, bony boy with a pair of only too familiar looking blue eyes stared out of the picture. The whitish crack of the photo’s fold cut right through his body. It was a strange feeling to look at the kid. He couldn’t grasp what it was exactly. Maybe it was the dawn of guilt. Absentminded Michael tried to press the fold straight. The kid wore a torn undershirt with little red and blue rockets printed all over it and a way too big pair of dark blue shorts. He was standing in front of a wall in some dirty backyard, a stuffed sheep, which had clearly seen its best days long ago, close to his chest. At the upper left end of the picture, Michael recognized the tip of a diner sign. He remembered the cheap, run-down diner, next to the only too well known strip club, where it all began. He’d used to take some of the girls to this exact diner and the motel behind it there every now and then in those days; for business and for pleasure likewise. Damn fucking shit! This couldn’t be happening right now!

He mustered the boy’s skinny face again. It was stained with dirt and wore not even the hint of a smile. Michael could easily imagine that smiles were nothing that came to this kid’s face very often. His dark, thick hair, clearly inherited by the Mexican mother, was unkempt and way too long. An average boy from the lowest social class in the Midwest. Nothing special so far. If there only wasn’t the little bugger’s face: The whole part around his eyes resembled pictures of Michael himself, when he was young. This fact he noticed instantly and this thought came along with a strange urge to run or close his eyes and just throw picture and letter into the canals before him. Maybe it was just a sick joke. Whatever it was, though, the whole idea made him feel slightly nauseated. The deep sadness in the kid’s gaze was doubled by dark shadows beneath his eyes. Shadows Michael could remember very well. Shadows he’d worn himself after his Dad’s long nights out; shadows that come along with a good beating and sleepless nights of pure fear and agony. The boy’s stare pierced right into his inside. He swallowed hard and stared at the sailboats rocking slightly to and fro.

“It’s like one of those Nations-United-for-Children pics they show around Christmas time to collect money, isn’t it?” Norton began, without facing him.  
“You better keep your sick jokes, Davey”, Michael didn’t know what to think. He felt like someone had pushed him into cold water with lead shoes on his feet.  
“It’s not deniable that he resembles some Latin-American version of you, only not so well fed.”  
Michael gave him a fiery look, “This could be a scam just as good!”  
“Yes. Sure. I thought of that too.” It surprised Michael, that Norton admitted this possibility. That didn’t make it easier to suspect him. “The mother was dying and you must have been quite the sugar daddy to those dancers. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

Michael breathed heavily and kept on shaking his head slightly. He didn’t need that right now. Maybe he should just forget about it. Davey was right, that might as well be a coincidence or a desperate move. The sound of the city and the little waves splashing softly to the concrete walls of the canal washed over them for a while.

“And you think he is the one returning to my grave?” Michael began after a while.  
“Well Michael, I actually know it is him, who comes to pay visits to good old Mr. Townley. What I don’t know is, if he’s definitely yours or not and why exactly he is doing this.”  
Michael couldn’t bring himself to look up or at the picture again. He held his head with his hands, bent forward, staring at his feet.

“What I got is this,” Norton waved a thin file right into Michael’s feet-staring. “I got you a little more input about your dear boy, that might or might not be yours.”  
Michael straightened up and took the file, raising his eyebrows, “Kid got a criminal record? Are you fucking serious?”  
“I’d say like father, like…” There was an annoying mocking tone in Norton’s calm voice.  
„Shut it!“ Michael bawled out.  
Dave answered with a smile and a stretching of his arms, “Don’t get too excited about it. He didn’t play in your league. Just some pick pocketing. Only bigger thing is, that he disappeared completely at the age of fourteen. But just read it yourself.”

Michael snorted, shaking his head in disbelief again.

Dave got up “Keep the record. I am off the case and won’t investigate any further.”  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Michael looked up.  
Dave had that smug agent look, he wore whenever he felt he had Michael in his hands or was somehow above him.  
“It means I am out. I am not interested in being associated with you. This is best for both of our sakes, remember? Just hope this unfortunate soul set on the wrong horse, visiting your grave. Maybe you are lucky and he has nothing to do with you, apart from his resemblance. Or you just deny the whole possibility at all. Whatever you do, I wanted to tell you this. I personally am not a big fan of depressing stories about street rats. Now do whatever you want. Be good, Mike.”  
He nodded shortly, fished for his car keys in his pocket and left unceremoniously.  
Michael moaned and threw his head in the neck. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”

He focused on the picture again. That sad puppy face was so much cliché, but it got to him anyway. He understood the meaning of the kid’s look. He had seen that exact same look, every day he had looked in the mirror when he was just about the same age. He touched the kid’s face with his index finger, following the line from temple to jawbone, wondering who this street rat, as Dave put it, might turn out to be. Was he his kid or just a lost soul, thinking he had a dead father lying six feet under in a grave in Ludendorff bearing his name? What if it was true and he was his son? Chances were there.  
But the bitch of a mother could likewise just have used the slight resemblance of the kid and himself to give the boy to someone, she knew could take care of him. Like a cuckoo. He might not have been de-Santa-rich that time, but he could survive well. And the strippers knew that very well, with Amanda showing off with her new body parts and him bragging just as much. Was it all just a desperate move from a dying mother, just like Davey had said?

It has been all in vain anyway. The letter had never reached Michael and he disappeared from sight for good in 2004. The plan had failed.  
So why did the kid return to the grave? What did he hope to get from there? He couldn’t possibly know that Michael was still alive. So what was the point of visiting? What was going on with this boy?  
After all Michael couldn’t deny that he was also a little bit curious and flattered. Being missed was some nice way of stroking one’s self-esteem. And then there was a small, but rising feeling of responsibility for this boy. Guilt, curiosity, suspicion, denial, responsibility and anger all washed over him at once as he kept staring at the little creep in the picture. He had a lot to think about. One thought was the most present: What would he have done, if the letter had reached him in time? And even more: Should he go investigate in this matter or just forget it ever happened? The night started to stretch out its hands to the city of Los Santos with all the flashy and glittering lights, that reflected on the small waves in the canal. The boats were still floating smoothly up and down, just as if Michael's world hadn't cracked a little more, just at this precise moment.


	3. The Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left Kudos! It is nice to see, that there are some out there, who seem to like my little story. I know my English is not clean; I am working on it…  
> Here now I present you some of the “special” chapters of this fiction that will appear now and then and stand out against the others; they are flashbacks in first person perspective. I will be getting back to Michael in the next chapter.
> 
> Last content-relevant note:  
> This story is not exactly a happy, fluffy one. Please mind that there might be mature content and graphic scenes of violence and abuse. Any under-aged sexual content will only be mentioned with no details, just hints.  
> ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_Lake City – December 2006  
_

Winter has been harsh so far. The shores of the Big Lake were already covered in ice and huge ice sheets were floating over the water’s surface. Like every evening I was sitting on that bench next to the lake and watched the chunks of ice moving softly up and down. The view had something soothing. The water, the ice... As if it would rock me to sleep, whispering that things will be okay one day.  
Things were quite okay at the moment. When I thought how it had been about two years ago, I really had something going now, heading somewhere. I had been living in 17 different foster homes, before I’d decided to leave the system. I had lost count on the times I’d run away before, always ending at the same place: the grave of my mother. I had never forgotten the small white cross in the fourteenth row. Nothing special, one among many, but it was all the home I had. I knew it was no place I could actually return to. But I needed to be there. They didn’t understand. None of them. None of the state bureau, none of the families where I was put – like an intruder. But I'd grown sick of being treated like a god-given burden or a chance to prove people’s charity or grace. I wanted to be someone on my own. The older I got, the more I felt that way. And the big city had looked like the place, where I could chase my luck. I was sure I was going to be someone soon, just like the others. Not just a poor little foster kid. I’d rather be a rug collector than the golden prize of another second born happy family that treated me like they were daisy farting angels and I the ungrateful rotten one, they had to change.  
The ice was moving to and fro, like tiny misshaped boats. I wondered what it would be like to be on such an icy ship, crossing waters and seeking adventures on different shores. How would it be to see the world? What chances were out there for me? Not many I guessed, but still, it was worth the chase. I would have given anything for success.

The tip of my nose, my fingertips and my ears were freezing. I felt them burn already. In winters like these, my fingers always got this dark red color. Just one shade away before blue; maybe that was from the time, when I almost froze ‘em off one winter in North Yankton. I rubbed my hands together and breathed into them to gain some warmth. Even though it was damn cold, those moments at the lake were the highlight of my days. The cold was nothing I was really worried about. I was lost in thoughts and in the beautiful view, when the snowball hit me. It burst on my face and the snow fell right into the collar of my jacket.

“AH! You fuck”, I laughed and jumped behind the bench. Slavko Zahiragic knew how to fight, that I already knew from our time over there in North Yankton. And he obviously knew how to throw.  
“Eh, you dirty spic. Take this!” A whole salvo of snowballs flew over to me. I managed to duck out from most of them, while shuffling together enough snow and mud to get some ammunition myself, while hiding behind my cover. The cold, wet snow crawled down my collar as some of the snowballs had hit my neck right away.  
“AY, Slav! Your mum should wash your mouth. But she’s too busy sucking my dick, doncha know!” My snowball hit him right in the face, just in the second he appeared from behind the tree, where he was hiding. He swore and got ready for another attack.  
“You should grow yourself some pubes before talking all big man!” He shouted over and aimed some more snowballs in my direction.  
I tried to run from the bench over to the trees, but Slavko was quicker: He jumped and pinned me down in the snow, pressing a handful of it in my face. The cold stung my skin. His face was red from exhaustion and from the freezing cold and a fat, smug grin danced all over it. He beamed down on me.

  
Slavko Zahiragic and I shared a similar story. We met in a foster family, where we were put together about two and a half years ago. His parents had died in an unexplained shooting, when he was seven. He went to an orphanage followed by six foster homes, before he was sent to the Alston family. The Alstons had been the worst WASPs I’d ever met before. He had reached there two months after me and we immediately became friends.  
He was half a year younger than me, but already about one head higher. I was small for my age, I was behind and that didn’t make things easier. He’d always tease me about it, showing off with his stupid dark voice and downy beard. I on the other side was still fighting fucking vocal change, not to speak of facial hair. I didn’t understand why I was growing so slow or staying so small. What girl would ever go for a little one like me? I was almost fourteen, I was small, I had the voice of a ten year old and I couldn’t even fight a boy half a year younger than me. And Slavko wouldn’t waste even one possibility to show me his power.  
I had made the plans to come here and leave the foster geeks, but he had had the courage to steal money out of Rebecca Alston’s purse and run off for real. I had planned to go to a city, but he had found the right people there. I knew I could outsmart him any day, but I would not win a fight anytime soon. He was massive and I was just… just as he’d said: a little spic.

I hated to feel so powerless. In those moments I hated my life and I was scared. The pain of this humiliation was worse than the cold or the lashing and beating I’d had experienced in my life. I was so sick of feeling small and insignificant. I just wanted to be normal. Like the others. On the other side, he had been my friend over the last two years. We had run away together, had found shelter together and had stolen together. I knew I could count on him.

I stared up in his watery blue eyes, his blonde hair peeked out under the red cap with the “polar wolfs”-logo he was wearing. I spat out some deep snot to disgust him away, but he didn’t even move or showed any sign of letting go of me. We’d proven our strange brotherhood through many grossing out battles – no entitled winners yet. He still smiled. “How much did you get today?” Little clouds accompanied every breath he took. I panted and tried to throw him off me once more. Slavko just snorted. He pressed me down and pinched my cheek with the stupid grin still on his face,  
“Ah my precious! How much? Or did you go to your music store again, you little faggot?”

  
I buckled in vain to get him of me. I knew he was joking, but still I hated it. I’d always loved to hang out at the music store, sneaking around the shiny instruments as if they were calling for me. But I had forgotten my duty there only one time, when I didn’t return to our meeting point in time and didn’t bring anything of value back. Once! It had happened only once and now he was going to hold it against me forever. He still wore the winning face and it made me mad. I frowned and collected my whole strength to finally throw him off me. It worked and with a soft thud, he landed in the snow next to me.  
“You gotta quit eating from the Rusty Brown’s trash bins, you fat turd!”  
I laid back and tried to gain some breath. I heard Slavko’s low laughter.  
He turned his face towards me, flipping a little snow over to me with his fingers.“Don’t change the topic, Tony. Whatcha got out of today? I have only some stupid tourist’s bucks. ‘Bout 150.” He sounded a little frustrated, which left me with a swelling pride.  
I pulled twelve credit cards out of my jeans pockets and snipped them over to him.  
“Maze bank ATM in Columbus Street, South Coast” I smiled at the jealous look on his face.  
“And again you go all golden boy, you lil’ dork”, Slavko threw the cards back to me, sat up and brushed the snow from his thick, padded jacket,  
“Vince is going to literally kiss your ass one day, if you keep that shit up. Or maybe”, he suddenly turned strangely serious, “maybe we should keep it and don’t return at all.”  
I sighed, stored the cards safely back in my pocket and jumped to my feet, following my friend’s example, “Nah, I’d be happy to offer you that ass-licking honor. Besides, what’s with the solo trip? How could we manage that? Vince does all the credit fraud and stuff. We don’t know shit, yet. How come you get those ideas now?”

Slavko shrugged, “Just so. Why don’t we just not return tonight?”  
I narrowed my eyes, “Did you pull some shit?”  
“What are you thinking?” He mimicked a praying gesture and looked at me innocently, “I am always good boy.”  
“Psh, like shit you are”, I chuckled and gave him a soft punch, “So you want to finally freeze to death this night?”  
He shrugged once more, “So you want to return for good?”  
“For good, for good! We have a good run, don’t we? Let’s get the best out of it, not? Also my balls are almost iced, I don’t want them to fall off and then turn into you.”  
Slavko shook his head, grinned and put an arm round my shoulder, while nudging my head, “You know, Tony? You are hopeless, you fuck boy. After all the shit we’ve seen, you’re optimistic? You think you can make something out of your life, you fool?”  
“If not us, who will try?” We started to walk home in silence.  
  
Home – It’s been two years since we’d ran away from the foster home in North Yankton. Ever since then we have been together. Slavko Zahiragic and Anthony Juarez –It could go like that forever. Now we shared a room in the back of an old, shutdown steel factory and worked for Vince Thompson, who owned the factory and used it for his various business matters. Honestly I had not the slightest idea, what Vince did exactly, but Slavko and I got a lot of chances to prove ourselves to him. And it seemed important. People were listening to Vince and that impressed me. He was a real boss.

Most of the time Vince sent us to some pick-pocketing districts: Tourist areas, cafés, festivals, markets, fast food chains etc; all to gather little money. Some amounts, enough to keep him satisfied and the cops off our heels. But since maybe half a year he had trusted us with important stuff, real errand-boy stuff. We sniffed around for him, did even some small arson on several cars and mainly worked as silent postmen. And I had quite the run. I was good. I was quick and I got things. When Slavko got the strength I at least got the hints of most of what was going on. Sometimes we needed good planning more than fists.  
Vince was happy with us, maybe he would make us proper members one day. I had seen it happen before. He was our chance to make it.

The night had already fallen over the city and the cold was biting our faces badly now. The factory lay in the shadows of a highway bridge that led to the freeway out of Lake City. The constant whooshing of the cars filled the air. When we came closer, we could see the lights in the first floor offices still burning; that meant that Vince was waiting for us to hand over our day’s effort. We climbed through the hole in the wire-mesh-fence that surrounded the factory. It lay in front of us like a black castle in some fairy tale. Its shades crept over the dirty snow like hands reaching for us. I don’t know why my mind took me down that particular road. I hesitated for a moment and looked up the grayish concrete walls. Three immense chimneys shot up the air as if they wanted to pierce the sky. My eyes stopped at a small black outline on the porch roof over the backdoor that led to offices backsides on the right side of the factory. A single crow was sitting there, its beak pointing towards me. I could see its dark eyes glinting in the flashing lights of the city. I couldn’t tell why, but it made my stomach turn.

“What’s it, Tony?” Slavko had already reached the small backdoor, that led to rear-side of the factory. His voice was more impatient than usual “It’s cold, what are you waiting for?”  
I turned my eyes away from the crow and jogged forward to close in on him, “Don’t freak out! I’m on my way!”  
Slavko looked at me annoyed. “Vince won’t be happy, if we keep him waiting like that. You said that yourself. It was your decision to come back. Now the fuck move your ass.”

He opened the steel door and entered the factory on the same way as we did it every evening. I turned around and looked up, but the crow was gone, so I followed Slavko inside, wondering why he was so strange all for a sudden.  
“Did you see that bird?” Slavko was quickly heading up the staircase that led to the offices on the first floor.  
“What? Are you all biology now, beaner? Come on now!” As every evening he seemed eager to get to our room, where we spent the nights playing on our brand new Xbox 360.  
"Fuck you”, I mumbled and double-checked my pockets for the credit cards. Vince was nobody, who you’d want to disappoint – for your own sake.

The hall to the offices seemed gloomy this evening. The neon light was flickering oddly. Slavko knocked at the wooden door with the milk glass outlet that led to the main office. He quickly entered after Vince’s well known “Move yer asses!”  
I followed him and closed the door. It smelled like a billion cheap cigarettes in there and as usual the heating was at probably 86 – sweat hell, just as Vince loved it. The greenish paint was already peeling off the walls, revealing some moldy stains. In the middle of the office stood a way too huge wooden table, that Vince had bought from some Antiques guy. It filled almost half of the room.

To our surprise there were three men standing in the office, who neither of us had ever seen before. Their heads spun around to us. They all wore the same type of black suit with some white symbol or writing stitched to their notched lapels and they all wore a strange, empty look on their faces. I watched Slavko from the corners of my eyes, his face was stony.  
“There yer’a boys!” Vince sounded happier than usual. He looked oddly misplaced between the suited guys with his black sweat pants and the wife beater that revealed his fat hairy chest. His round shoulders were hanging down loosely and he moved his huge head from one side to the other.  
“Whatcha got for me tonight?” Vince stretched his hand over the table. The used office chair, in which he sat, creaked as he bent forward. Slavko reached down his pockets and pulled out a couple of crumpled bills,  
“Hundrednfifty, Vince.” Vince gave him a nod and a smile I couldn’t quite pinpoint. Normally he wouldn’t have smiled for such a small sum. Then he turned his flat face to me.   
“And you, tiny Tim?” I hated that name; I knew I wasn’t outgrown, unlike Slavko, that fat moron. Maybe he was planning to be 6.5. Whatever that gigantic asswipe ate, it was too fucking much!  
“I’ll grow you out soon”, I mumbled and put the credit cards in Vince’s huge hands without looking him in the eye.  
“What was that?” He held one hand to his ear and showed an evil smile. The three silent men behind him smirked.  
“I-I-I said: I’ll grow!” I backed away from him.  
“I fear you are speaking up to me, aren’t you, you puny lil’ shit?” I strained my jaw in anger, but didn’t dare to speak back once more. Last time Slavko had spoken up to him, he wasn’t allowed out for a whole week. That meant half the income and less food for both of us.  
Slavko pushed me in the ribs, giving me a warning look. I stared down at my shoes. Vince nodded, satisfied with my silence.

Vince turned to the men, while shoving the credit cards I’d stolen for him into the drawer of the baroque table. I was not sure, if we were good to leave. Usually Vince would tell us to go and get lost. So we stood there waiting for orders.  
“Good! So, gentlemen? Do we have a deal here?” They kept on smirking. The one in the middle stepped forward towards Slavko and me. I gave my friend a questioning look. He tried not to look me in the eyes and kicked some nonexistent dust away with the tip of his shoe.  
“Slavko?” I mouthed, but he didn’t even turn around.

The man got closer and before I had the chance to get to the door, he snatched my arm. I backed away and looked around in surprise. The man’s stare was colder than the ice sheets on the Big Lake, his eyes were deeply black. He pulled me forward to the table, where the others were standing. I threw Slavko a last look. Shame and guilt were clearly on his face. I tried to wriggle myself out of the man’s hands.  
“Slavko, boy. Your share”, Vince threw a bundle of dollars in the direction of my friend.  
“Slavko? What’s going on?”  
I didn’t understand what the fuck was happening at this moment, but the feeling of betrayal burnt my heart. Had Slavko rat me out? The man pulled me even closer to the two others. They eyed me up and down like a piece of cattle. A second man got hold of my arm. His long fingers closed around my arm, like the clutch of a mantis.  
“Ye can make good business with this one”, Vince grabbed my face. His huge, sweaty hand covered most of it. He turned it for them in all directions; it felt like my chin was going to be bruised afterwards.  
“He is smart. He’ll learn quickly. He’ll obey and do as you please, the little rat. Just what ye wanted, no?”  
The men gave some dark chuckles, but still didn’t speak. Then Vince added with an evil tone in his voice, that made me sick,  
“And he is still small. Ye’ll be making money out of him in no time, in any way you please. Isn’t it so, puny?” With that he gave my crotch a slap and turned to Slavko.

He still stared at his shoes. I tried to break into a run and shake them off. But the grip they had on my arms grew only stronger. I kicked and fought, but their fingers dug only deeper in the muscles of my arms. They closed in on me. I saw their dark figures around me. Their shining shoes, their cold stares, their expensive suits. Between their dark figures I saw Slavko leaving the office, shooting me one last painful look. I bit, kicked and screamed. But they wouldn’t let go.  
“NO! NO! LET ME GO! LETMEGO! Help me… SLAVKO HELP” I yelled.

Finally I managed to place a good kick at one of the men, forcing him to groan in pain.  
“Thompson, what’s this shit! Didn’t you drug the boy?” One raspy voice said. I saw the glimpse of a huge pile of dollars on Vince’s lap. I pulled so hard on the grip of my arm, that I felt something tearing inside my left shoulder. My view became blurred for a moment, but the panic rising in my body made me ignore the pain.  
“NO! LEAVE ME! VINCE! LEAVE ME!”  
“Let me handle this”, it was Vince’s voice.

The wall of men opened for a second. And he stepped over me. I still pulled on my now numb arm. I felt hot tears running down my face. I couldn’t escape, they wouldn’t let go. Slavko didn’t warn me and even got some money out of it. I didn’t understand what was happening. My legs gave in, but still I tugged frantically on my arm, that was in the firm grip of the unmoving black suited guys. Vince looked down at me as if I was a disobedient dog. I stared back, seeking for help. What had I done wrong? My eyes were widespread; I felt the air burn in them. Vince’s face didn’t move and without another word he clubbed me down with his small leather bludgeon.

Everything went dark.


	4. Digging in the Dirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello out there! Thank you again for some Kudos :) I am glad you like this little piece.  
> I alrady have to excuse myself for the following chapter might be a bit long and not full of action, but some things had to be done, before the big storm. I hope you still like it a bit. Greets :)

Three weeks had passed since Michael had met Dave Norton at the marina. Three weeks since he knew about a kid called Anthony, roaming the Midwest visiting his eventual father’s fake-grave. Three weeks with constant insomnia, that was only interrupted by gloomy nightmares. Three weeks of constant brooding about what to do next.  
Michael had lost count of how often he’d read the letter, looked at the boy’s picture and how often he’d compared it to pictures of himself, of Jimmy or Tracey. He had read the crime record several times: the kid had been arrested for pick-pocketing and taking part at some smaller organized crime shit: mainly gang-stealing, illegal begging, one case of arson, but mainly minor thefts. The boy was a little Dicken’s dodger, nothing more – no robberies, no heists, no stolen cars, yachts or worse.  
He was just a bullshitting Nobody trying to survive; some boy who may have a relation to himself, but it could be a weird joke or trick just as well. There were no thick proofs, no evidence, nothing – so why even bother? Theoretically he could forget all this with just the flicking of a finger. He could just switch these thoughts off and go on with his life.

The boy didn’t need him; he didn’t even know that Michael was still alive and with all the guys those strippers had been fucking back in the years, this Anthony could be Brad’s kid just as well or any other random guy’s. Michael tried to keep thoughts about that whole fucked up situation out of his mind. But the damn kid with his stupid blue eyes was persistent like a bulldog and it didn’t stop to wander around his fucking head and still Michael couldn’t decide what to do. The whole fact of the boy’s existence and his visits at the Townley grave kept bothering him.  
The big “What-If” was getting heavier and heavier; too heavy to be ignored after a while. But then – there were many pitiful and crashed characters out there; only difference was that this one might be his son; might be, just “might”. Not knowing the truth about it was what was bugging him the most. Not knowing meant not being enabled to decide consciously; without control. Michael didn’t like it when things got out of his hands like that.

It was raining heavily on this morning in Los Santos. Michael had spent the whole morning driving around restlessly along the Del Perro Freeway heading east with no particular goal. The rain was so heavy it blurred the sight even with the wipers on.  
He had been driving like this for maybe forty minutes, when he noticed, that he’d reached El Burro Heights – just where Lester lived. Still he wondered, why Lester chose to live in that Latino gang infested area of the city, but it probably played to Lester’s needs and paranoia.  
Maybe him ending up here was a sign, maybe it was just coincidence - whatever it was, being here he could just as well go for it and ask Lester for help on his special matter.So Michael steered the car towards Amarillo Vista and came to a halt outside Lester’s shabby house. He quickly walked up the stairs towards the front door. Inside he snickered about the endless mass of signs, cameras and satellite dishes Lester had attached to the run-down green house and about the fact, that despite the horrible state in which his property was, he still had the dedication to put up some creepy garden gnomes.

As fast as possible he headed to the porch roof to escape the rain. Immediately the “dog” started barking heavily and as he knocked, the camera next to the door moved towards him and a muffled speaker voice sounded a nerved “What d’you waant?” The words were almost swallowed by the fake dog’s barks.  
“What? I need a fucking appointment now to visit a friend?” Michael gave the camera an annoyed look.  
“Ack, as if you don’t just need my help” The speaker spat disgruntled, followed by the buzzing of the door opener. Lester coughed heavily as Michael entered with a greeting nod and placed himself on the sofa.  
“So I guess this is something special?” Lester rolled his wheelchair away from the desk where he had been sitting at and faced Michael, who looked at him as if he had done something very wrong and needed some sort of forgiveness now.  
Lester adjusted his glasses, “You know I got more important things to do than playing shrink to an overly satisfied bankrobber?”  
Michael strained his jaw, “You know, considering I made you enough money to gold-plate this fuck-hole, I think I could expect a bit more hospitality from your side. Or did I disrupt you jerking off?”

For one moment the other didn’t answer and Michael started to feel grossed out, but Lester quickly cleared his throat and gave him another annoyed look.  
“No I had to finish some business-preparations on the Chinese stock market, before they open tomorrow. Some very late night calls. My friends over there are soon going to get up again. Time difference, you understand? So what is it, Michael?” He adjusted his glasses and sat up straight in his wheelchair.  
Michael curled his lips and refrained from rolling his eyes. With a sigh and no further ado he handed Lester the envelope with the letter.  
“Just read” he growled and observed Lester’s face. Surprised the other grabbed the crumpled paper and pulled the letter out of it. His eyes flew over the paper and an annoying smirk crawled over his broad face.  
“Oh! That is an interesting turn of events.” He fingered the envelope for the picture.  
“And how does the little Townley bastard look like? Where is that pic?”  
Michael had expected, that Lester’d find some satisfaction in all this.  
“In the envelope” he gave with a wave of his hand and looked at his polished leather shoes. Lester turned the envelope around and shook it, but nothing came out. “There is nothing", he stated and Michael looked up.  
“Ah no! Fuck! It must be there!” He felt little hot needles pinching his inside. How could the picture be lost? It was the only visual proof he had of the kid. Now it was gone? “Never mind”, Lester waved and turned his chair towards the screens of his computer, typing something into the keyboard. Michael sighed heavily burying his face in his hands. Now he didn’t even have the picture any more. Shit, shit, shit!

He got up and paced around nervously, searching the floor for the picture, before he came to a halt behind Lester. “You think you can help me on this?”  
His old friend snorted and pulled a self-pleasing face, “Who are you talking to?”  
“Yeah, then tell me what you can find out about him. I’ll shove some dough down your throat for the job.” Michael got more excited about finally doing something on this matter, than he was willing to admit to himself.  
“Don’t bother”, Lester made a strange sound, like the mixture of laughter and a heavy cough, “This I will do for free, just for the fun of it.” He seemed to enjoy this research already.  
“Great, make me your main source of entertainment” Michael shook his head, as the other had glued his eyes back to the screen again. Lester was still the sadistic nerd he’d always been. In this case the old saying was wrong: Money hadn’t changed him a bit - which was not necessarily a good thing here. But at least he was willing to help.  
“Don’t give yourself so much credit”, Lester barked without moving his eyes from the screens. “And what are you still doing here? Go away Michael. I’ll call you on this.”  
“A’right!” He held his hands up in defense, “I sense when I am not welcome anymore”, with that Michael left.

On the way back to the car he checked and rechecked his pockets for the picture of Anthony. But it seemed to have gone for good – as there wasn’t a sign of it in the car either; it was gone. And he had been so sure that he’d tugged it in the envelope. It was the only connection he had to the kid. With a sigh he started the engine of car and drove off. The streets were empty on this clouded, gray early noon and the streets were still wet from the rain. Sounds and smells seemed clearer after the rain and people seemed to have slowed down for just a moment. It took Michael merely half an hour to get back home.

He parked his car in the front yard, stretched his neck and slowly went home. He could sense tension in the house the second he’d entered it.  
“I’m back!” but no answer was audible. He knew for a fact, that Amanda had to be at home, her car was still parked outside the yard. But before he could yell once more for her, his eyes caught the kitchen island. Amanda was standing there motionless, a bottle of red wine and a glass in front of her, both empty. He came closer.

  
“Hey”, he started half-heartedly and immediately stopped at the sight of the well-known look of reproach on her face. Her mouth was just a mere thin line of anger and her eyes glistened in a mixture of hurt and hostility. Michael came closer and noticed the bend photography of Anthony lying next to the bottle. His stomach instantly jolted and turned cold.  
It must have fallen out of the envelope at some point this morning. Amanda played with the corners of the picture, bending and straightening them in a slow routine. Michael stood there for what felt like hours. The tension in the kitchen was thick and loaded with so many things unsaid. A thousand excuses, one more colorful than the other, ran through his mind and at the same time the loaded atmosphere clutched his throat and punched his stomach. So he just stood there helpless; inside getting ready to fight, like a bull in the arena, waiting for the matador to make the next move.

Finally Amanda broke the silence with a simple „Explain yourself.“  
Michael gave it a try. He frowned and played the unaware, self-confident: “What’s it this time, Aman?” He shrugged and tried not to fixate his look on the picture - the picture he was on one side even relieved to see again.  
Amanda slowly slid the photography over to him, her face as stern as when he’d entered. She must have planned this move; how else would it look so smoothly now? She still knew how to work a charm and make him feel guilty instantly.  
“Don’t play innocent as if I was completely stupid. Why do you carry this in your pocket?” She narrowed her eyes and he could clearly see that she had already counted one and one together. “Who Michael? Who is this? And don’t you dare lie to me!“  
“I don’t fucking know!” He blinked down to Anthony’s picture and matched sight with her again. At least this was not a total lie. He didn’t know who the boy was – not exactly, not in person, not as much as he wished to.  
“Oh yeah and why do I find this under your side of the bed then? You keep pictures of random kids under your side of the bed? Is it that? Are you out for underage rent boys, now? Don’t you even try to go down this route with me, Michael!”

He didn’t answer; instead he recalled changing his jacket on the bed this morning and putting the envelope from one pocket in the other. The picture must have fallen out there. His mind was racing, trying to find a escape to this situation. Amanda continued and her voice got high pitched, when she nailed it in one sentence.  
“Who is this bastard? Since when do you know about this? I always thought you had had at least the decency of not getting any of your hookers pregnant. Now this?” She pointed at Anthony. “Are you trying to ruin this family on purpose?! What’s wrong with you, Michael? Are you trying to humiliate and embarrass me?” Her loud accusations echoed through the hall and Michael tried hard not just turn his back on his hysterical wife and leave.  
He clenched his teeth together and breathed slowly. As if this whole shit didn’t already get to him anyway. Now she made a fuss about it, when he was not even ready to face facts himself. This was none of her business for fuck’s sake!

It took him only a few steps to get to the kitchen island on the opposite side of her. He grabbed an empty glass and poured himself some scotch with ice. The clinking and rattle of the procedure were the only sound in the kitchen for a moment. But Amanda’s yells were still lingering in the room, silently screaming at Michael along with her hateful stare. Finally he leaned over the island, gulped down a big sip of burning cold liquor and looked up, straight into her accusing face.  
The lie found its way to his tongue in the usual smooth manner, “Why do you keep digging in the dirt? It’s you who reads more into these things and destroy everything!”  
Every word showed how much he loathed every second in this room with her and her reproaches.  
“It’s nothing, Amanda. He is just a kid Solomon and I had been talking about for the new project.”  
But Amanda knew him too well; she kept on path, “Anthony 1997 it says on the back, Michael. Will you for once say the truth? I know where this picture was taken; I have been there! It is obvious that you produced a kid with some of your whores! You are such a pathetic liar! The only thing you manage to do right is to destroy things and mess everything up, you fucking asshole!”  
Anger was boiling heatedly under his skin forcing him to act out, as he felt pushed to the wall with no possibility to escape. Amanda had cornered him; he knew very well, that she saw through his lies and he didn’t like the feeling that came with that.  
“BULLSHIT! I don’t know it for sure! I don’t know, alright?! Now stop that interrogation shit or…” He felt rage rushing through his veins like a heated poison, clouding his mind.  
“Or what? You finally lose it? Going to kill me, is it that? Well you promised me that very clearly not so long ago. SO GO AHEAD ALREADY, MICHAEL DE FUCKING SANTA! KILL ME ALREADY!”

Something inside him wanted to strangle her until she stopped talking for good, but instead he reached for the empty wine bottle and threw it to the wall right next to her. The sound felt cathartic. The glass shattered to the floor and Amanda let out a loud shriek and cast him a surprised look. Panting Michael leant forward, staring at his hands on the kitchen island. Silence fell for a minute while both parties seemed to prepare for the next round.  
He broke the silence with an attempt to calm himself down, “I don’t know who he is all right? Some time ago someone slipped a hint. Are you happy now? It might be a scam.”  
„Oh please Michael“, she shook her head and spoke, like she felt herself morally high above him, „you are full of shit, but you can’t be blind.” She snipped the picture his way, “He looks like a tanned copy of you; who are you trying to fool?”  
“I just got a letter, you hear me? I don’t know more about this than you. Have you ever heard of the logics and laws of genes? There a billions and billions of possibilities. This-“ he pointed on Anthony’s face and looked back up to face her, “could be a coincidence.”

She just crossed her arms and stared at him in silence – disbelief and hatred clearly visible on her face. He strained his jaw and ground his teeth; the bitch had him in a corner and forced him to confront a truth he hadn’t even realized himself yet – and he didn’t like neither her attitude nor the facts very much.  
“YEA ALRIGHT THEN! HE HIS PROBABLY MY SON! YOU HAPPY NOW?”  
She exploded instantly “What a hypocrite you are, you lusty asshole. Never talk to me about infidelity again, this is your lowest point! And I didn’t even know, that you could go any lower, but there I am wrong again. You realize I had just born you your daughter that time, right?!” She slammed her hands on the island.  
“It’s been over twenty fucking years!” Michael's anger-level matched hers instantly.  
“A child, Michael!! You have another child! With some slutty stripper! This is ruining this family for good! This is the worst you could have done to me… to us as a family!”  
“Sure, sure! This is way worse than you FUCKING EVERY SORT OF COACH YOU EVER HAD IN YOUR MISERABLE LIFE IN. OUR. BED! NEXT to the rooms of our children! Even with them INSIDE the house! Sure, blame me. I get it.”  
His yells were just as loud as hers, echoing through the whole house.  
“I hate you. I hate you so much – you and your fucking bastard! Is that your new way to roll your fucking midlife crisis?”

Michael couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He swallowed everything he wanted to say, out of fear to completely lose it and actually act out physically against her. He emptied his glass of scotch in one big swallow and left without another word, slamming the door behind him. It would take him long to cool down. He steered his car right to the cinema he lately bought, parked in the front and entered.

24 hours later Michael was on the way to the airport. He’d spent the night in the office of the cinema, after visiting a bar and filling himself good enough to almost forget worries and rage inside him. Luckily he kept a bag with some spare cloths in the cinema, so he hadn’t had to face Amanda again. He had calmed down just enough to think straight and had no intention to get all fucked up again. Now he pushed his way slowly through the afternoon rush hour. He had made a decision – he had to check on Anthony himself and he had to do it now. After all the fighting and brooding about this, he needed the truth. He needed to know if this boy was his. If he’d produced even more misery than he knew; one more ruined character on the cold streets with the miserable Townley genes inside him.  
He shook his head at the thoughts. Strangely enough he also couldn’t shake a strange feeling of hope. Maybe this was someone who would understand him more, than his fake ass family did, who was too spoilt and egoistic to appreciate everything he had done; too ignorant to acknowledge and value him as a person, as a father and family-man.

As the dense rows of cars rolled slowly forward, Lester mewled out of the mobile:  
“Well what I got is this: If Norton is right about this person in Yankton being Anthony Juarez, then he is possibly one of the living dead.”  
“Living dead?” Michael sighed.  
“Yes, living dead. Aren’t you listening? He had gone missing in 2005, reported by a Youth Welfare sub-office in Lake City, where he was arrested the last time and got some entries. As the law states after seven years of disappearance people are declared dead. Anthony had left no signs of life, such as registered sightings, calls, mails, invoices, bank transactions – whatever you like - therefore the state saw it as a presumption of death and declared him dead in absentia. He was declared dead only some months ago. You know how slow bureaucracy works. But as he still lives, he now should be some sort of unperson – someone who isn’t registered anywhere. Someone not existing in the eyes of administration or the state at all. Just the highest form of a nobody.”  
“How fitting”, Michael sighed and Lester went on with a sneer.  
“Yes, it seems like arrangements with death run in your family. I also have the impression, that the boy has no intention to end his status, seeing that there is no attempt on his side to get registered anywhere whatsoever. I also checked for any registries on phones or credit cards with men his age in the area, that could match his description. But there is nothing like it. I mean he could have started a complete new life. But trust me, chances are low, as far as my data states it. He is obviously in hiding.”  
“Hiding? But from what?” Michael’s hands clenched around the steering wheel, a strange feeling of worry rising up inside him.  
“I don’t know, Michael. And this is exceptional. He just disappeared for good and with no traces in 2005. And nothing since then; not even tax bills, election registries. Nothing. I assume that there is much more behind this. A fourteen year old cannot go into hiding so perfectly. Either he did something horrible and is a genius or, more likely, he had someone doing it for him.”  
“So there are no signs of where he had been all the time? This all you got?” Michael had a bad feeling about this, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint it. It could be both: worry for himself or for the kid. It could be a trap for him to get in, set up by Norton or it could be a kid in big need of help – his kid. Both options were likewise alarming.

“You get deaf and lazy in your old years now? I just said he is a ghost! There is nothing. I have a criminal record on him till 2005, that I could –“  
“That I have myself already. Dave gave it to me at the marina. Nothing to worry about.”  
Lester snorted angrily, “Next time you do the research yourself if you know everything better and are so hard to satisfy!”  
Michael suppressed a grin “Don’t get all sulky. What else you got then? Anything I could work with?”  
Lester still seemed a little taken aback and sulky by the lack of praise for his work, “Actually – as I said – there is nothing. This boy has not even a bank account or a phone registered on his name. There are some entries about another kid, Slavko Zahiragic in connection to him. They were in a foster home together. This Zahiragic still lives in Lake City and is involved in some family shit – if you get my drift.”  
“Mafia? Great – just what I wanted. More mobsters up my ass!” Michael thought of the troubles Martin Madrazo had made him some time ago – nothing he was very keen on repeating.

“That seems to concern only his buddy then. They both seemed to have gone pick pocketing together in Lake City, before he disappeared. There is nothing on an Anthony Juarez since 2006. He went missing. That’s it. No evidence if it is really him visiting our friend Brad under your gravestone.”  
Lester coughed and Michael got lost in some thoughts about the fate of that kid; wondering where he had disappeared to.  
“So do you want me to get in touch with the others?”  
“Think I can’t handle a kid, after all the shit we pulled?” Michael drove the car to the big parking lot at the airport.  
“Well you don’t seem to have the best way with kids, looking the others you’ve raised.” The smirk on Lester’s face was almost visible through the phone.  
“You know, you’re really good in pushing your luck”, Michael growled humorously.  
“Meh, you’re possibly right. Trevor would probably kill this precious new fruit of your loins anyway; accidentally or when he gets one of his seizures.”  
Michael let out a laughing snort, “Likely. So anything else?”

Lester went on a short rant of ungratefulness before he went back on the nerd train, “I got a lot of entries by the foster regulation and Youth Welfare bureaus. Everything before January 2004, when he’d ran away the last time. Notes of abuse, a habit of running away from foster homes and causing troubles with those families. We got some medical entries here, some bruises, nothing too major. You want me to go on? I send you a list of the foster families.”  
All those information were troubling, the boy had relived his own youth – maybe even worse and he felt sorry for him. And a tiny voice started whispering words of guilt in his ear, as the sad and resigned look on the kid’s face appeared on his inner eye.  
Yea, thanks Lester. Great work.”  
“Ack, don’t mention it. Just bear in mind that you owe me a favor.”  
Michael rolled his eyes, “As if you would let me forget that.”  
Lester gave away a dirty laugh and ended the conversation abruptly with a quick "Good luck, Michael."  
Michael parked his car and took his sports bag. Time to visit his grave once more.


	5. Yankton Blues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to staythirsty for the comment and thanks to all who left their kudos :)  
> Enjoy the next chapter

The snow covered the ground only in harsh, muddy patches of white here and there and tiny blue and yellow flowers started to fight night frost and put up their heads against the last signs of fading winter. The idea of spring was undeniable in the air.  
But Michael had no eyes for the landscape as he drove along the long road from the airport to Ludendorff. He stared on the asphalt in front of him, where the yellow lines kept speedily trailing away under the tires of his rental car, like lanky snakes. Finding this kid Anthony was the only thing that occupied his mind. All arguments, stress and anger from Los Santos somehow had lost their meaning on this strange search for truth. It felt like a weird pull that forced him to move towards the direction where this boy could be. Son or not, nothing since the last heist had caught his attention like this matter. The urge to see him, to find out more about him, to just observe how he might be was as strong as the heaviness of the idea of a lost son. It was eating him up. It felt as if there was a feeble connection between him and a complete stranger and he had find out whether to cut or to strengthen it.

Thinking about Anthony though, there were some details in this whole story that were not matching. Like tiny mistakes, inconsistencies. He knew they were there, but he couldn’t pinpoint them exactly. Not yet. He just felt that something seemed odd with everything he’d found out until now. As if somebody tried to hide something – whatever it might be.  
The first thing was obvious: David Norton. Michael was quite sure that he had not been lying and he was also sure that this whole thing wasn’t a setup. For what purpose would someone do that to him right now? No. This accusation towards Davey didn’t make much sense, right? But there was something that bugged him. How could the FIB-agent be so sure that the kid at his grave was Anthony, when Anthony was declared dead? And also – when he’d counted right, the boy had been given up by the bureaus a little bit too eagerly, a little bit too early. And if it was Anthony, why hadn’t Norton given word to some offices that the dead one was walking?  
There could be easy explanations on it – something like a fake evidence of Anthony’s death somewhere maybe. And of course, the simplest solution to Norton’s behavior: He didn’t want to be involved – at all. He’d even told Michael so. But still… what if there was more to this whole matter? Michael didn’t want to oversee anything here. Acting rush was a thing that kept happening to him, but he actually was more the type who preferred a well thought of plan.

To come back to Ludendorff had been a rush decision. But now he’d reached the point where he needed a plan and with all the doubts and skepticism on his mind, he just had the perfect idea.  
As he passed the welcoming sign of Ludendorff, just for one second the drama of his past - faking his death and living behind everything he’d had here in the Midwest – repeated itself inside his head like a movie on fast forward. The anxious feeling in his stomach he’d had over the last couple of weeks, built itself up the more tangible everything turned out to be. He steered the car behind a small inn in the Ludendorff centre and parked.  
For a moment he just sat there, staring at the concrete wall in front of him, where a poster with a half naked woman tried to convince him of the necessity of some antidepressant pills that were available now with chocolate flavor. Never had he thought that he’d be back here again so soon after the last incident some months ago. Actually he’d hoped to be able to finally forget everything connected with his past in the Midwest. Wrong hopes – again.

A cold wind bent the tops of the trees outside and sent an abandoned chips-bag to a lonely dance over the street. Where should he start the search for a lost son? Where should he pick up the last bit of Michael Townley he seemed to have lost along with all the horrible and great memories he’d left here in this state on the Canadian border. Where would he find this forgotten Townley ghost?

He leant his head on the steering wheel for a while and closed his eyes. It was silent outside and the radio music he’d heard all the way from the airport faded somehow in his head, where a heavy silence filled every corner of his mind. Doubts washed over him like the strong wind outside washed over the trees. Maybe he should just leave and go back home. Maybe this whole undertaking was doomed anyway – considering the tiny mistakes and the background. It could only go wrong. And maybe he was just chasing after some vague ideas he’d dreamt up – ideas of a sick sort of family happiness he’d neither achieve nor deserve. Chasing soap bubbles – that was what this was.

After fifteen minutes of weighing up the pros and cons of his plan, he still couldn’t make up his mind. He was still indecisive. He massaged his temple, leaned back and sighed; he knew that he’d decided about what he wanted to do in this matter the first time he’d realized the meaning of the letter and the picture of Anthony Juarez. Still he let out an annoyed “Shouldn’t I be laying next to my pool right now?”  
Secretly he even enjoyed these new demons that came to haunt him. At least they made him act and feel alive again – running towards some kind of goal line. And it was time to go and haunt the demons back – maybe things in his life might change for good this time.

Inside the little, heavily overheated inn hung the smell of cheap alcohol, deep-fried food and old breath in the air. Michael needed a second to adjust to this new environment. He put down his unnecessary thick winter jacket and took a seat at the counter. Apart from two truckers sitting in the utmost corner of the diner over two fat-dripping burgers, an all-in-all-red-and-black-flannel-guy, who seemed to have passed out at the corner of the counter and an old bearded guy that kept staring at Michael, the diner was empty. Michael wondered if it was ever full or if this sad bunch of stranded characters was all this poor excuse for a guesthouse ever came to see on a regular base.

The innkeeper, an obese woman, leant next to a kitchen-see-through-window, talking either to an unseen chef or to herself. It was impossible to figure this out, as her body covered almost the whole window. She wore a way too tight pink t-shirt with the letters “juicy” written over the hard-to-define-rolls around her torso – no room left for any fantasies or for decency whatsoever. Michael forced himself not to stare at it all the time, but still his brain wanted to figure out which roll was boob and which was plain fat. It was an amusing tempt. She turned at the sound of an entering customer and her rolls wiggled with her every move.  
As Michael finally seated himself on a barstool her rosy face broke into a smile, that didn’t even closely hide the five tons of chewing gum she’d stuffed into that mouth of hers.  
“Oh, for cutie, who we got here? You a newbie ‘round here? Want the menu?”  
Michael gave a faint smile that was kicked up inside him by her Ludendorff typical behavior and dialect. He took the menu with a small nod and quickly hid behind the laminated double-sider she’d handed him.  
“Ah, someone‘s got the holler tail”, she wobbled away with a surprising coquettish swing in her step and laughed hoarsely between the smacking of her gum.

Michael cleared his throat and stared on the little pictures printed on the menu that made sure that one got the immediate idea of the cuisine offered here, if he was able to read or not. It was time to focus. Focus on what he was about to do next. But playing the research-assistant of the local court in Lake City as planned felt stranger than playing cop – at least there he had a faint idea about the job he was faking. He sighed heavily maybe it was better to get a clear head and something from the menu first.

He looked around and at the sight of the delicious but greasy burgers the truckers had on their plates Michael’s liver gave him a warning sidekick and he decided to rather go for coffee and some answers first, before he’d ruin his cardiac veins for good.  
He ordered without further ado and fumbled his pockets for the picture of Anthony. The little boy stared at him whispering little songs of guilt in his inner ears. Would he find him here?  
It took about five minutes for the coffee to brew. The pink glob of grease brought it to him with a smile that spoke of hospitality and unnerving nosiness.  
“Here’s your coffee, mystery man. I am Betty. If you need anything just call me.”  
She stayed next to him at the counter longer than necessary to bring somebody a cup of coffee and exchange some service niceties; instead she craved her neck to get a look at the picture in Michael’s hands.  
“Are you here for business or pleasure?”  
“I am here mainly for coffee, Betty”, with that he put away the picture, realizing though, that Mrs. Curious here might by some chance know about Anthony. But he needed to sort his steps out before entering it without a backup plan. Betty though didn’t make any signs of leaving soon. She seated herself two seats away from him and leant over the counter, an audacious look on her face as she examined him. Michael needed his whole strength not to act out now.

Don’t I know your face, sir?” While asking she was eying him up and down.  
“Sorry, lady”, Michael shrugged and poured some milk in his coffee.  
“Buddam sure. You look familiar. Ever lived here? Where are you from? You really look familiar.”  
She leant over a little more, trying to face the sleeping flannel guy at the end of the counter.  
“MORTY!” The unexpected yelling made Michael jump a little in surprise. He almost spilled his coffee. “DOESN’T THIS GUY LOOK FAMILIAR?”  
The man called Morty looked up weakly, blinked a few times and merely nodded at the Betty.  
“See? He sees it too”, she proudly beamed. Michael couldn’t shake the feeling that Morty held a secret fear of Betty and would probably agree to worse than just a familiar face.“I’m from San Andreas. No chance of any relation to this place”, he finally took a sip of the hot coffee in front of him.

Betty sighed, “Oh for cutie, I see mystery man, you won’t add to my daily drama here. Well call me if you need something. There are dirty dishes that needs washed.” With that she finally heaved her heavy body from the bar and went to the kitchen.  
Michael followed her with his eyes, thinking hard if he should just go for it and ask. He wondered why it seemed so much harder to research on this than on a fucking robbery that might cost him much more than just his state of paternity. But then – this was not business, it was personal at its best.  
“Betty, wait”, he pushed himself and took out the picture of Anthony.

For a woman her size she moved astonishingly quickly. She stood next to him in less than a second with that rosy chewing gum smile.  
“Mystery Man?”  
“Have you seen this kid? He should be around twenty now.”  
She grabbed with her thick fingers for the picture and held it close to her eyes. After maybe five minutes she put the picture down and stared at Michael, then back at the picture again.  
“Oh for shoot! Now I know where I know your face! See? You’re just as sullen looking as him! Who are you?”  
But she didn’t even wait for him to answer and went on with a triumphant smile, “It’s Diego. He’s been here since winter.”

She furrowed her brows at the picture, an angry look on her face, “On this one he still has something sad and cute. I feel bad for him, when seeing this.”  
“Diego?” Michael narrowed his eyes.  
“Yes Diego. Little waster is up for no good. He only makes problems. He even smells like problems. And he is playing mystery-man just as good as you, dontcha know. Honestly, if I had my druthers, I’d even give him some money and make him leave Ludendorff. He creeps it out of me, dontcha know.”

“Sis man talkin’bout strict-face? Ye bettr keepaway from satone forreals” The flannelled Morty seemed to have caught up with the conversation between his nemesis or lover – Michael wasn’t sure where to categorize him - and himself.  
“Morty, just keep on sleeping, you’re slurring!” She lifted a corner of her mouth, nodding in the direction of her regular customer (or husband?).  
“Don’t listen to this one. He’s totally schnookered.”  
“He needs exorcised with that big-city-no-care-face he always pulls! I saw taddoos onhim ‘n scars. I readmagazines! Me, I know truth boutim. He need exorcised! EXORCISED!”

Betty shook her head, “Don’t listen. Diego sure has the aura, but he’s actually just stranded, dontcha know. His life, just tough tomatoes.”  
Michael looked up, “What d’ya mean?”  
“I think he just wasn’t lucky. Ever. Dontcha know.”  
“That is not what I meant. What aura? Is he in kind of troubles?”  
“Ah, I am widely known for my confidentiality” Betty lifted her chin up and pulled a weird grin.  
“I bet you are…” Michael grimaced and finished his coffee.

“So his name is Diego?”  
“That’s what he said”, she paused a while, “Alright I tell you. You seem legit.”  
Michael almost choked on his coffee and coughed, putting the mug hastily back on the counter. So much to her knowledge of humanity.  
“The little scalawag came here some three months ago or so. He can work some charm. First he had some money too and came here to eat every night. I made him hotdish and all the delicious stuff. But then he always wanted me to put his bills on slate. See this?”  
She pointed on a long hand-written list, pinned to the kitchen window.  
“Now kid’s coming only now and then and as I have a big heart I didn’t beat the money out of him yet and gave him some treaties instead each time. Yes, I got the warmest heart”, she laughed again, shaking her head about herself.  
“Are you hundred percent sure, this kid is the same like this Diego?”

She crooked an eyebrow and looked at him as if he had asked if this was the White House.  
“You know, Mr. Mystery Man, we might not be from fancy San Andreas here, but we are far from being as redneck as your outback, dontcha know?”  
Betty gave him a strange wink and went to the truckers at the end of the diner, giving them some coffee-refill. When she came back she brought an almost full ashtray with her and shoved it into Michael’s hands.

“He smokes like a chimney, was here just yesterday. If it helps, take one of these. I watch enough series to know what’s going on here, dontcha know, Daddy?”  
She winked again and was about to wobble-roll away, turning her head, before entering the kitchen, “Do what you need to do. But I know what I see. Be it Diego or not…this is no coincidence.”  
Michael was completely surprised; he sat there for a moment with the ashtray on his lap staring at the fat lady in disbelief who left for the kitchen. A couple of clattering sounds later she stood in the doorway again. She smiled and her rosy cheeks glowed, she obviously loved this whole situation.

“He is really for the streets, Diego, dontcha know. You’ll probably find him at the old rail station.” With this she slowly wobbled over to the kitchen window, ripped down the list with the open bills and counted everything together.  
“Right, Mr. Mystery, that would be four hundred and seven dollars plus your coffee, so let’s say four hundred and ten, shall we?”  
She held her fleshy hand open in front of Michael.  
“Er, why would I pay that?”  
“Well you know it, and I know it”, she stemmed her hands in her hips and her rolls looked impressing, “Ain’t it, Daddy? And if it’s not for that, let’s say it’s the price for my valuable advice, dontcha know.”

Michael frowned again, if he paid now he’d admit something he didn’t even know for sure himself. On the other hand it felt strangely right; so right like he hadn’t felt for ages. So he put out his wallet and handed her some green notes, not believing his own actions.  
With that coquettish move of hers Betty put the money between her rolls under her t-shirt. A movement far from sexy, but still somehow catching.  
“Good man. Maybe you teach him some manners.”

Michael grabbed his jacket and as he turned to go, Betty handed him some glazed donuts in a paper bag, “And give him that on the house. He must be starving, dontcha know? Ack, my heart is too soft for the world.”  
Morty snorted a laughter behind them and with that Betty went into her next battle a more than angry look on her broad face. Michael left, the cigarettes with the DNA of his maybe-son stored in a napkin inside his pockets.

He set out of the stinking hell of a diner, not much enlightened about the situation than before. But at least he knew were to go. Anthony or Diego or whatever his fucking name was, must be in real trouble, if he changed his name and kept secretive about this matter so much. But at least things got more concrete now.

 

* * *

 

 

Many, many miles south of the little inn where Michael de Santa was brooding over his plans to find out about his mystery-son, another man was on the look. He had just returned from a long business trip only to see that no progress at the search for a certain slave had been made during his absence. He paced up and down his large patio that rose on a cliff over the Gulf of Mexico. The sun was already burning unusually strong for this time of the year, but still the grass in his enormous garden was perfectly green. Pavel Rostow was a powerful man. The way he walked, the way he moved, the way he dressed and the way he spoke oozed power in a way that set everyone in his nearer surrounding to alarm.  
Nobody knew he came from nothing or maybe nobody dared to remember this delicate circumstance. He had fought for power and claimed his position by all means using the darkest ways possible and by that losing every single bit of sympathy, humanity or compassion that was left of him. He was seen as formidable company and dreaded in terror the same time. His short, once thick blonde hair that had started to fade to a slight grey, the trimmed stubble in his face that had lost its color even quicker and the little wrinkles around his eyes were the only visible hints of age on the Russian. Nobody knew how old he really was, it started to feel as if he had always been there. A state of mind Pavel Rostow had worked for very hard and very long and now he stood at the peak of his terror-reign and harvested the fruit of his work.

Pavel was a good-looking man and there was an almost irresistible effect he pulled on people – maybe it was the magic of money, power and clever charm, maybe it was something else. Whatever it was, it worked: Pavel was a people catcher, a manipulator, a demagogue and a killer. He was as dangerous as a hidden vortex in the sea – once too close he’d take you down and drown you with no chance of ever reaching the surface again. Nobody had ever escaped his fangs. Nobody had ever stood up to him. Nobody but one stupid boy. And that one had also had the nerve to steal from him. And Pavel was not going to let this little piece of vermin get away with this.

A couple of black crows had sought shelter in the flame trees in his big garden. Their little beetle eyes were directed at Pavel as he still walked restlessly up and down. Finally he came to a halt. He stared over to the tree that still stood in bloom. Soon it would lose the old blossoms and the fiery red of dead and fallen flowers would cover the ground. One of the crows shook itself and fluffed its feathers. Its head turned to Pavel and the Russian grinned smugly.  
“Cesario!” Even though the dark voiced call wasn’t very loud, for the split of a moment a strange silence fell over the garden like the silent tremble after a heavy thunder. It took the called man less than a minute to appear before Rostow. His head was slightly bent forward as he came closer.

Cesario seemed to be dressed less carefully than his boss, who wore a grey, tailored Didier Sachs suit even on the hottest days of summer. Cesario’s blossomed Hawaiian made him look like a cheap Vice City gambler. He was followed by two other guys in similar clothes, who waited at the entrance to the mansion, as Cesario approached his caller.  
“Señor Rostow?” Cesario was eager to please Pavel and Pavel appreciated this with a slight upward twitch in the corner of his mouth.  
“Have you had any word of the lost one?” He looked past his employee, facing the enormous roman styled villa he lived in.  
“Every expendable man is on the look for him. We even ordered a troop of the paramilitary to the search.”

Rostow still stayed calm, but the silent, burning fury inside him was almost tangible. Behind him one of the crows from the tree flew closer and took a seat on the curved balustrade that surrounded parts of the patio. The tall man examined the back of his hands.  
“Tell me, Cesario, how long has it been since the maggot escaped with that precious piece of my collection?” His voice was dangerously casual.  
“Erm…”, the man stumbled looking for words.  
“Four month, is it?” He had started to check his fingernails, while Cesario flinched and hot sweat ran down his neck.  
“That could be the time, yes Señor. We are doing everything in our might-“  
“Yes, of that I am sure”, the calm voice of his boss unnerved Cesario, but he didn’t dare move, “Did you ever think, that one of our men could have helped him?”  
“I double-checked them all. None of them would dare even to think of betrayal. I’d vouch for all of them.”  
“Oh, you would? Interesting”, there was a mocking tone in Pavel’s voice, that could easily be overheard.

He looked up and for a moment there was smile on his face, then he turned his back on Cesario before he spoke on, “And did you, by any chance, send someone back to where he came from?”  
“It is very hard to cross borders alone and alive. None of the smugglers would have played along with him. He must have went south.”  
Pavel Rostow turned around, “Do you seriously assume someone who escaped our little game alive would have problems to cross a river and trick some hillbilly redneck border patrols? Did all the cocaine finally ruin your brain, Cesario?”  
Cesario bowed and backed away a few steps, “Señor, I searched every corner of this village, every street of the cities and had our men in a circle around the area the second the rat had escaped. There wasn’t any chance of him to go north. He must have slipped south somehow.”  
Pavel nodded, “It is time that I will attend to this matter myself. Now go and take care of the next delivery.”

Cesario turned and hit the floor before he could take another step. He wasn’t able to hear the gunshot anymore. Blood and brain spilled over the terracotta-tiles. The bullet had entered his head and shot out right between the eyes that had popped out some inches by the force of the shot. The two men at the entrance didn’t even wince by the sound. The bizarre bulgy-eyed corpse stared at them, as a light red puddle of blood grew bigger around him. Little pink and white chunks danced over the liquid.

Pavel made a few steps towards his dead assistant. He bent down and picked up some indefinable pieces. “Clean him up and get me Roman Murillo”, with that he turned to the crow still sitting on the balustrade. Its eyes glistened and it moved its head fidgety from side to side. With a little clapping it snapped for the chunk the Russian held to its beak.

The two men swallowed at the sight and hurried to fulfill their master’s new orders. There was no doubt, that now, as the master was back, he would find and kill everyone who defied him – if it was a traitor or a young man, not more than a kid in his eyes, who had broken his bonds and stolen from a man as mighty as the devil himself.


End file.
